


Forever, You Said

by MermaidMarie



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death Fix, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e13 No Better To Be Safe Than Sorry, Resurrection, but things are good in the end i promise, soft places to land here, starts as self-indulgent angst, we're all about happy endings following the heartache in my world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-03-07 18:45:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18879049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MermaidMarie/pseuds/MermaidMarie
Summary: In which, following the events of the finale, everyone is grieving, but Quentin never actually made it to the Underworld.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Concept: This is more like when Penny 40's body died while he was astrally projecting. The Mirror World is weird, guys, I don't know.  
> Anyway, if y'all wanna read some lovely fluff, I have got some great recommendations for you. This is not that recommendation. Some writers cope by writing lovely soft stories where everyone is happy, and I admire those writers greatly. I am not that writer, and I am especially not that writer here. You have been warned.  
> (Also--I'm not super concerned with plot here. They'll bring Q back, but will it be in a way that makes sense, or will it be a contrived device that I'm using indulgently? Who knows? That's not the point. The point is angst and then eventual not-angst.)
> 
> cw for the discussion of suicide. (I do read Q's death as a suicide, but I also know that people report feelings of regret during attempts. So that's where we're at here.)

_We had plans, we had visions_

_Now I can't see ahead_

**_We were one, we were golden_ **

**_Forever, you said_ **

_But I can't be sober, I cannot sleep_

_You've got your peace now, but what about me?_

_Thought we had the time, had our lives_

_Now you'll never get older, older_

_Didn't say goodbye, now I'm frozen in time_

_Getting colder, colder_

_One last word_

_One last moment_

_To ask you why you left me here behind_

**You said you'd grow old with me.**

 

\- “You Said You’d Grow Old With Me” by Michael Schulte

~

The world was a little darker now. It was that simple.

Eliot hunched over Quentin’s desk, staring at the bottle of whiskey in front of him.

The fire was probably still burning outside. He’d been the first one to leave the circle, finding it truly unbearable to watch everyone’s tears. His own grief was bad enough; how could he possibly handle Margo’s, Alice’s, Julia’s? Hell, even Kady and Penny. There was so much darkness hanging over all of them. And Eliot could barely stand on his own two feet as it was.

The mug had cracked. The peach had withered. The crown had blackened. The book was ash.

And the world was darker now.

All those months, all that time. He’d promised to be braver and he’d never gotten the chance. He’d never gotten the chance to tell Quentin how he felt. He never got the chance to say goodbye. He never got the chance to say _anything._

_I’m alive in here._

The last words he’d ever said to Quentin.

_Eliot._

The last thing Quentin had ever said to him.

It wasn’t _fair._

Eliot felt a little childish, thinking that way. Life wasn’t fair, death wasn’t fair, nothing was fair. Why should _this_ be fair? It was naïve to expect anything to be fucking  _fair._

But…

It _wasn’t._ And Quentin deserved to have something _fair_ happen to him for once. Jesus, fuck, Quentin deserved better than _this._ Brave, true Quentin, who was reckless and stubborn and beautiful, selfless and _remarkable_. One of the best people that Eliot had ever known. How—Jesus fucking Christ, _how_ could it have ended like this?

Didn’t they deserve a _chance?_

A chance to breathe, a chance to talk, a chance to _try_.

A chance to be happy.

Quentin _deserved_ to be happy. Instead, he was gone, and Eliot knew him well enough to know why. To know what had really happened. Whatever Penny and Alice said about heroics, Eliot _knew_.

Eliot _hated_ that this was the world he’d come back to.

He remembered coming to in the hospital, groggy and aching—

_Margo was holding his hand, gripping it tighter and tighter._

_He blinked a few times, trying to get some focus. He furrowed his brow. Why was she—_

_“Bambi? Bambi, it’s okay, I’m okay,” he’d mumbled._

_And she’d just shaken her head, her shoulder trembling as she sobbed._

That whiskey was looking awfully tempting.

How the fuck was he supposed to be sober for this _motherfucking nightmare?_

And Eliot couldn’t—

He couldn’t _handle_ this. This grief, it was so much bigger than him. It was taking up the whole room, pushing up against the walls and seeping through the cracks. It was infecting the air; Eliot couldn’t take a single breath without _feeling_ it. There was no way to escape it. Here in Quentin’s room, where the sheets were still crumpled, where books were still scattered, where a fucking glass of water was still on the bedside table… Like he’d meant to come back.

How was Eliot supposed to _live with it?_ How was he supposed to accept this? How could he accept a world without Quentin Coldwater?

In the hospital, when Margo had told him that Quentin was gone, when he’d almost laughed, because that couldn’t _possibly_ be true—

When she’d shaken her head, tears streaming down, _he’s really gone, El, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—_

And Eliot—

God, he just—

He’d _died._

Right there, right then, Eliot had died, too.

 _He went out a hero,_ Penny had said, but Eliot knew the truth.

There was this twisted black pit in his stomach. He was unsteady and nauseous and in real, physical pain. It was like his blood had become concrete. He could barely fucking _move._ The world was darker, and Eliot’s heart _ached_ with it. 

It _wasn’t fucking fair._

They were supposed to have _time._

How was he ever supposed to get past this? Accept it? How _could_ he? It wasn’t right.

Every time he closed his eyes, he just saw Quentin.

Flashes, images—

_Quentin, stumbling onto Brakebills campus and staring at Eliot with those confused, crinkled eyes, semi-speechless._

_Quentin, holding a crown as he looked down at Eliot, teary, saying he was going to make a good king. Calling him High King Eliot, the Spectacular._

_Quentin, eyes wide and hopeful, asking if they could give it a shot, because fifty years, who gets that kind of proof of concept? Why the fuck not?_

_Quentin, gazing up at him in disbelief when Eliot broke through and told him he was alive._

Quentin and his wide brown eyes, his dimpled smile, his hair falling in his eyes—his laugh, his voice, his lips. The way he brightened when he started to talk about something that made him passionate, the self-conscious way he’d run his hands through his hair, his stammer when he was excited. His drive, his idealism, his intensity when he _cared._

And how could Eliot live with that? Knowing that these memories, these _wholly inadequate memories,_ were all he was going to have left of Quentin?

The world was darker. It was that simple.

~

Quentin wasn’t sure what was supposed to have happened. He was in the Mirror World, he’d accepted his fate, he’d been consumed by the magic—

And now he was here. Still wandering the grounds of Brakebills. He hadn’t gone anywhere—he was just _here_ , but not enough to be seen or heard. Not here enough to tell anyone. It was strange—and excruciating.

Helplessly, he watched on as his friends were gathered around the bonfire. Crying, holding hands, not quite looking at one another.

He saw Eliot hunched over, clinging to that fucking peach, and his heart just _shattered._

He hadn’t even gotten to say a single word to Eliot. He hadn’t gotten to see Eliot’s eyes become his again, he hadn’t gotten to _tell_ him how much he missed him, tell him everything he’d done to get him back, tell him he was sorry he’d almost given up.

There Eliot was—

Just in reach—

And so fucking far away.

Quentin had _missed_ him. It had been _months,_ months of not knowing for sure if he could ever be saved, months of going without his smile, his snark, his laughter.

The memorial was… fucking awful. Every part of it. Quentin could barely watch. All this useless, preventable pain, all this grief. God, he didn’t _want_ to be dead, he didn’t want to _die_. Quentin wanted to make all this better, but he _couldn’t,_ he couldn’t fix this. Minor mendings weren’t any good here. He couldn’t take away the hurt. His own or any of theirs.

After some time, Eliot wordlessly got up, walking away.

Ignoring Margo’s brief protest, ignoring Alice’s question.

Taking another look at everyone—even _Kady_ was crying, Jesus—Quentin trailed after Eliot.

His heart broke all over again as he watched Eliot grab a bottle and head to Quentin’s old room.

Eliot was hunched over the desk, staring at the bottle, tears falling freely.

Quentin sat on the floor, leaning against the desk and looking up at Eliot. He pulled his knees up to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, uselessly. “I’m so fucking sorry, El.”

Eliot took a breath, leaning back in the chair. Quentin reached out, brushing his fingers against Eliot’s thigh.

“Fucking hell, Quentin,” Eliot said softly. “What am I supposed to do without you?”

“God, I wish you could see me,” Quentin said. “I wish you could hear me.”

Eliot hung his head, staring into his empty hands. “We weren’t _done,_ Q. There was so much left. And look, I get you wanted to save the day, but it wasn’t worth your _life._ I’m seriously trying not to hate you for it, but _God_ , I hate you for it.” Eliot paused, letting out a short, empty laugh. “But no. I don’t mean that. Not really, of _course_ not. I’m sorry, I could never hate you, I…”

Quentin snorted. “I’ll hate me enough for the both of us,” he said, looking up at the ceiling.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eliot sighed. “I can’t even—shit, I can’t even say it _now_ and you’re _not fucking here_. So much for being brave, I can’t fucking—God, I can’t say the _words._ This is so stupid.”

The room felt so cold and so heavy. Quentin found it hard to look at Eliot. There was _too much._ Too much he needed to say. Too much that he could never…

“I guess if I can’t even fucking say it now, I never would’ve been able to tell you anyway, huh?” Eliot shook his head. “Fucking coward. But you were always the brave one. And, honestly, Quentin, _fuck_ you for being the brave one. It got you _killed.”_

Quentin closed his eyes. “I thought… I _thought_ I was doing something brave. Or. I hoped I was,” he said, his voice small. “El, I was just so tired, I—I’m _sorry._ I shouldn’t have… I wish… _”_

“Q, we were supposed to—” Eliot’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat. He furrowed his brow, glaring down, the complex mix of anger and grief and agony swirling in his expression. “So. You got your big hero moment, then, didn’t you? Well, tell me, was it _worth_ it? Do you feel like a _hero_ now, Q?”

Now _that_ hurt. Quentin brought his hands to his face. Some fucking heroics. He’d just made things worse. For everyone, for _himself._ Made them worse for _Eliot,_ who deserved so much better.

“You know, Margo told me once that the difference between a live hero and a dead moron was one dumb decision.” Eliot tapped his fingers against the side of the bottle. “ _So when it’s be brave or be smart, you know which one._ Wish she’d said it to you, too.”

“I regret it, okay? I _fucking_ regret it. I’d do it differently,” Quentin said quietly. He dragged a hand down his face, sighing heavily. “If I could. I’d—fuck, I’d _run_. Or I’d have given Everett the stupid bottle. Or I would’ve just opened it and let the Monster possess someone and we could have figured that out after. All of us, together. Believe me, Eliot, if I could go back, I wouldn’t…” _Wouldn’t let myself die again. Wouldn’t give up like that. Wouldn’t…_ “Shit. You can’t even hear me, and I can’t say the words either. I can barely _think_ them. Maybe we’re both cowards after all.”

“God, I want to be mad at you for leaving,” Eliot said. “And more than that, I want to tell you how sorry I am. I’m so fucking sorry, Q. That you were in such a bad place, that you were suffering like that alone. I wish I'd been there for you. I wish, I… And I want to thank you for everything you did to bring me back, everything you went through for me. I’ve never—you and Margo both, everything you did for me, I never… I never thought _anyone_ would care about me like that. And I want to tell you how much I—but _you’re not here._ What am I supposed to _do_ with that?”

“Fuck, Eliot, I’d do anything to make you _hear me,”_ Quentin replied, gazing up at Eliot with watery eyes. “There’s so much I still have to say to you.”

“There’s so much I still have to say to you,” Eliot said, barely audibly.

Quentin choked back a sob. Dying didn’t hurt as much as this did.

“El,” Quentin said brokenly. He reached up, putting his hand over Eliot’s open palm. He could almost, _almost_ feel it.

Eliot stilled. “Q?” he whispered.

Quentin straightened up, feeling the slight shock of optimism. He pressed his hand down, wrapping his fingers around Eliot’s wrist. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m _here_.”

Eliot’s fingers twitched slightly, and Quentin swore he could _feel_ it this time, he really could.

The silence grew, the hope blossoming in Quentin’s chest, desperate, _desperate_ for something to hold on to.

Then the moment broke and Eliot sighed, pulling his hand away and running it through his hair. “God, I’m so fucking stupid,” he muttered. “This is ridiculous.”

“El…” Quentin said, crumpling.

Eliot shook his head. He grabbed the bottle and took a long sip. And Quentin’s heart fucking _broke_.

“I suppose it’ll be like this for a while, won’t it?” Eliot said, his voice thick with grief and whiskey. “Expecting you to walk in the room any moment. Seeing you everywhere I turn. _Feeling_ you here.” He sighed, leaned his forehead heavily onto his hand. “I wonder if it’ll ever go away. I wonder if that’d be worse.”

It was excruciating, this whole thing. Every part of it. Quentin got to his feet. Tentatively, he reached out a hand, brushing Eliot’s hair back from his face. Eliot closed his eyes and shivered, taking a deep, trembling breath.

“I’d go to the Underworld and drag you out myself if I knew where to start,” Eliot whispered, seeming to lean in to Quentin’s hand.

Quentin almost smiled. “I’d follow you.”

“I don’t know how I’m going to forgive myself. For not being there for you.”

Kind, beautiful Eliot. Quentin rubbed a thumb against his jawline. “You can’t blame yourself, El,” he said softly.

Eliot inhaled, brushing the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. He got to his feet and Quentin’s breath caught with how close they were standing.

“Well, Q,” Eliot said, affectations layered onto his tone. The low, broken voice covered up. Frankly, Quentin thought that was even more painful to hear, how he was shielding himself. “I’m about to do something _truly_ pathetic, so you’ll have to excuse me. In my defense, this is really fucking hard, and I’d like to indulge my wallowing. At least for tonight.”

Quentin watched as Eliot turned and crossed the room. He hesitated in front of Quentin’s bed, running his fingers lightly over the sheets. He took a shaky breath before lying down, curling around Quentin’s pillow, tears falling freely and silently.

“Oh, El,” Quentin said. He walked over, kneeling on the floor by Eliot’s head. He put a gentle hand on Eliot’s arm, feeling so _useless,_ so unable to help. God, Eliot, after having been possessed for months… And now, brokenly crying into Quentin’s pillow…

He deserved so much better.

Quentin rubbed his thumb against Eliot’s arm, hoping, somehow, that it was a comfort. He waited there until Eliot’s breathing slowed and steadied, until Eliot had drifted to sleep.

Quentin closed his eyes. _Well, it’s worth a shot._

~

Eliot dreamed.

He dreamed of Fillory.

But not the Fillory he wanted to dream of. Not the cottage with the blue door, not Arielle and her peaches and plums, not the Mosaic. Not that lifetime of memories that his dreams had to work with. No, he didn’t dream of that comfort.

He dreamed of the wedding arch, of biting into a peach, of finding a letter. But he was alone. He was alone as the memories flooded him, the pain of an empty space beside him. No one to turn to and say— _was it real, did it happen, it was beautiful._

The room felt so much bigger, so vast and overwhelming, as Eliot was left with his memories, clutching a bruised peach in a shaking hand.

The memories flashed in front of him, aching knees and hands from a lifetime of hunching over colored tiles. Memories of discussing what the beauty of all life was. Of discovering it.

“Peaches and plums, motherfucker.”

Eliot’s head snapped up.

“Quentin?” he said, feeling the relief of being able to have this comfort in his dream.

But as he looked up, there was something—

Something different—

When he dreamed of Quentin, when he had the memories of Quentin as he was trapped in his own mind, it was never perfect. He could never get the crinkles by Quentin’s eyes quite right. He could never get the curl of Quentin’s eyelashes quite right. It was always a little hazy, a little blurred, the way that memories and dreams are. It was never quite _him,_ no matter what Eliot did.

This Quentin, he had the hesitance in his crooked smile, the dimples, the nervously twitching hands, and there was absolutely no dreamlike blur to him. He was crystal clear.

Eliot felt his heart drop.

“Q,” he said, voice breaking and breaking and _breaking_.

Quentin looked a little awkward, his hand moving up to make an aborted gesture. “Here I am,” he said weakly.

“It’s you,” Eliot said, quiet and awed. “God, it’s really you. Isn’t it?”

Quentin’s smile grew and he looked relieved. “Yeah, El,” he exhaled. “It’s really me. I’m _here._ ”

Eliot was frozen. Staring. Not wanting to blink, not wanting to move, just in case—because it was _Q,_ he was here, and Eliot didn’t know—

Quentin took a short step forward, his gaze flitting around before landing back on Eliot’s eyes. “Hey, so, um—” he started, his voice small.

And then Eliot was on his feet, closing the distance with long strides.

Wordlessly, he wrapped his arms around Quentin, pulling him close to his chest, tucking his head under Eliot’s chin. And Quentin just _melted_ against him, and Eliot’s heart _ached._ He tightened his grip, pressing his lips to Quentin’s head, running his fingers over Quentin’s hair. Just _feeling_ him there. Eliot had to swallow back the sob building in his chest.

Eliot closed his eyes tightly, feeling the rush of emotion, the warmth, the pain, the heartbreak—

It was _Quentin._ Here, in Eliot’s arms, warm and pressed against him and _breathing_ into Eliot’s chest.

It was almost enough to make Eliot forget it was a dream.

Almost.

He pulled back, sliding one hand down to Quentin’s neck, putting the other on his waist, gripping it so they were still close.

He studied Quentin’s eyes, desperately. They shone with tears, with relief, with adoration. Quentin put his hand over Eliot’s, holding it to his neck.

“Shit, Quentin. How—” Eliot breathed. “How are you here?”

Quentin smiled weakly. “Astral projection, I think? I might be a ghost. I’m not sure. It’s, um. It’s unclear.”

Eliot felt his hands shake and he closed his eyes. He dipped down, pressing his forehead to Quentin’s. Realization broke Eliot’s heart all over again. “You’re still dead,” he said softly. Not a question. Just the overwhelming, unfathomable dark truth of the world he lived in.

“I’m sorry,” Quentin whispered, and Eliot could feel his breath.

He felt so warm, so solid, so _real._ Eliot felt a tear drip down his cheek. He’d never really thought about whether you could cry in dreams before, but he knew now, he supposed. God, Quentin felt so _alive_ here in his arms.

But he wasn’t.

Eliot pulled away, reluctantly, _aching_ with how much he didn’t want to. He pulled his hands back, untangling himself from Quentin.

He looked at the ground. He couldn’t meet Q’s eyes. He just… he couldn’t do it. It was going to fucking hurt too much. “You’re still _dead_. So, what now, Quentin?” he said, voice cracked and low. “What do we do? Is this the last time, or will you be back? Do I just live my life, getting older without you, seeing you in my dreams? Where does _this_ go? You get your peace, and I get these fleeting moments?”

Quentin coughed, sounding like it was covering half a sob. “I just… I don’t know. I’m sorry. I wanted to be able to talk to you. In whatever way we could. I was…” He hesitated, taking a shaky breath. “I was _there_ today, El. I heard everything you said.”

Eliot squeezed his eyes closed, feeling sharp pain hitting his chest. Every part of this _hurt._ His whole fucking rambling conversation to no one—everything he’d said to Q’s memory… His grief, his raw pain, just on fucking display.

He couldn’t face this. He couldn’t _look_ at this fucking situation.

“Eliot, I…”

Quentin didn’t seem to know what to say.

 _Yeah,_ Eliot thought. _Me fucking neither._

He opened his eyes, tried to look at Quentin again, but he _couldn’t._ He let his gaze drop to the floor.

Quentin took a step towards him, and Eliot wanted to move away but he couldn’t make himself do that either.

“I’m sorry, El,” Quentin said, his voice strained. “I’m just—I… I’m so _fucking_ sorry.”

Eliot was at a loss.

“Yeah,” he said, his hands feeling heavy. “I’m sorry, too.”

As he heard his own words, it sounded like goodbye.

“Wait. El, please,” Quentin said, a little desperately as he moved closer. “I don’t—look, I don’t want to be like, a ghost you carry around. I don’t _want_ to just exist to you in your dreams, and keep you from—from moving on, or—or living your life, but… Eliot, I don’t want this to be some kind of resolving some—God, some fucking unfinished business thing or whatever either. I don’t want this to be the last—”

He cut off abruptly, choking back a strangled sob. Eliot finally looked back up, seeing the tears streaking down Quentin’s face. His heart tightened. Nothing was fair.

“I don’t want to be _dead,_ Eliot,” Quentin managed to get out, barely a whisper.

A small pain loosened in Eliot’s chest. He stared at Quentin, feeling breathless.

“You don’t?” he said, with the slimmest note of hope.

Quentin shook his head. He let out a short, humorless laugh, starting to take another step towards Eliot before hesitating. “Look, El, you don’t _have_ to drag me out of the Underworld. If—If that’s where I am, I will—I will fucking _claw_ my way back up to you if I can, I promise, I just… We weren’t _done._ Our story wasn’t over. It can’t be.”

Relief flooded Eliot’s heart, releasing a fear he hadn’t quite realized was there. Quentin still _wanted_ to come back, he still _wanted_ to try. That moment, that stupid, brave, _reckless_ moment where Quentin gave up—it wasn’t all there was left. Q didn’t want to _leave_.

Eliot looked deep into Quentin’s eyes, the hope growing. He stepped forward again, wrapping his arms around Q again, like it was the most natural thing in the world because it _was._ He stroked a hand up Quentin’s arm, across his shoulders, pulling him in.

“I’m not ready to move on,” Quentin said, burying his face in Eliot’s shoulder.

“Then we’ll fight to bring you back. I promise. We will figure it out, Q,” Eliot replied, as steadily as he could manage. “We always do.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The catharsis of writing fanfiction is how I'm making it through this whole ordeal.  
> Also, for the record, things that did not happen for the purposes of this fic: Alice and Q getting back together (honestly, still doesn't make sense to me why they really would, and I don't feel like writing a breakup) and the whole Fillory set-up.  
> (Sidenote: Where are Penny 23 and Josh? Good question. Not important. They're just not here, and we're all accepting that.)

_For all of the light that I shut out_

_For all of the innocent things that I doubt_

_For all of the bruises I've caused and the tears_

_For all of the things that I've done_

_All these years, no_

**_Yeah, for all of the sparks that I stomped out_ **

**_For all of the perfect things that I doubt_ **

_I'll be good, I'll be good_

_And I'll love the world like I should, yeah_

**_I'll be good, I'll be good_ **

**For all of the times I never could**

\- “I’ll Be Good” by Jaymes Young

~

Eliot woke up, to the barely-light sky and the cold air drifting in through the window he hadn’t realized had been open a crack.

Quentin’s pillow was crushed under his arm. His neck was sore from the way he’d been lying, and his abdomen ached. He probably should’ve followed the doctor’s instruction to sleep on his back for a while, but alas, that simply didn’t work with his whole dramatically-sleeping-in-your-dead-ex-lover’s-bed aesthetic. It was important to grieve correctly.

Eliot winced as he rolled over, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes felt dry and his throat felt raw. Images from his dream went through his head—the curl of Q’s eyelashes, the dimples on his cheeks, the promise Eliot had made.

_Was it real?_

He wanted to trust himself. He wanted to trust that he _knew_ , that it had been Quentin, that there was hope again.

A small, lingering part of his brain insisted that he’d made it up. That of _course_ it wasn’t real, Quentin was gone and Eliot was deluding himself. It would be just like Eliot to cling to some fantasy because he couldn’t face reality. Hadn’t that been his whole life anyway? Clinging to beautiful lies he’d constructed for himself because the real life problems were too painful to face.

He took a long shaky breath, and for a moment, he thought he felt the ghost of a hand against his wrist.

His hand twitched, trying to chase the sensation.

“Q?” he said softly, into the empty room.

There was no answer. Of course there wasn’t. Quentin visiting his dream, if that _had_ been real, was not the same thing as him being in the room.

But that almost-feeling against his skin, the almost-touch he felt—

“I hope that’s you, Quentin,” he said. “I hope you’re really there. And I hope you know that I will do everything I can for you. Just like you did for me.”

He glanced to the side of the bed, half expecting to see Quentin kneeling there.

Just air.

He sighed heavily, closing his eyes.

“I think it was real.” He hesitated, feeling small. “I hope it was real.”

Eliot opened his palm, offering it to the empty space beside him. Nothing happened.

“I feel crazy, talking to you like this. At least last night, I wasn’t expecting you to hear me. Just one of those grieving widow speeches,” he said with a vague wave of his hand. He took a breath. “ _Please_ be here, Q.”

Aching, groaning, he pulled himself up so he was sitting at the edge of the bed, bracing himself with his hands. He breathed heavily, winded from the exertion. God, everything hurt. That wound in his gut throbbed, and his back ached, and his head felt like it was splitting open.

Not to mention the way his stomach turned every time he so much as looked at his hands, unable to shake the flashing images of what they’d done while he was trapped.

Shaky, Eliot closed his eyes.

“I really fucking miss you, Q,” he said to the empty space next to him. “I know it’s selfish, but I… I _need_ you right now. I need you to hold my hands and remind me that they’re mine again.”

He almost laughed, rubbing at his face and hunching over, ignoring the way curling in on himself hurt his abdomen.

“God, that feels so fucking pathetic,” he muttered. “I hate needing people, Q. But you know, it… Needing _you,_ it never felt pathetic before. It never felt weak. I just, I—now, I mean…”

Now, it was different. Needing someone who wasn’t really there. Eliot had never really imagined his life without Q, not after they’d met and he just _knew._ It was like that with Margo, too. Eliot met these people and it felt like they were going to be in his life forever. Like they were permanent fixtures in his world.

And Quentin being gone, it felt like some crucial part of the world had vanished. Some light had gone out, and nothing was ever going to be the same. Eliot could barely bring himself to understand a world with Quentin, a life without him. Quentin was _supposed_ to be in his life. Eliot knew that.

“I am getting you back if it’s the last thing I do,” Eliot said steadily. With conviction. He _meant_ it. And if Quentin was really there, he wanted him to _know._ Whatever sliver of hope the world was giving Eliot, he was _taking_ it. He was clinging to it. 

It wasn’t quite the confession that Eliot wanted to give, but it was close.

 _I told you I’d be brave,_ he didn’t say.

God, everything was so fucked up, how could he even get to the point where he could tell Quentin the truth?

He needed to. He needed to tell Quentin that he’d lied, that he regretted it, that he’d take it back if he could. He needed to tell Quentin that he was sorry for hurting him. That he was sorry for running away, just because he was afraid of fucking up. Afraid of having something too real, too precious to lose.

Eliot closed his eyes, for the thousandth time going over that moment, that awful, heart-wrenching moment.

_The Mosaic memories were overwhelming—Eliot could just feel his heart pounding in his chest. He felt lightheaded. Who would’ve thought? That life, that life he remembered—God, it was so good, wasn’t it? It was so good. There was so much peace and happiness and love in it. It was the sort of idyllic life that Eliot wouldn’t have even had the heart to fantasize about._

_“It was sort of beautiful,” Quentin said, his voice faltering a little._

_Eliot exhaled. “It really was.”_

_The Mosaic—the beauty of all life…_

_“I know this sounds dumb, but—us, we,” Quentin said. “I mean, I don’t know, think about it, we—we work. We know it cause we lived it. Who gets that kind of proof of concept?”_

_Eliot, before he could even really hear what Q was saying, pushed away the notion. Quentin couldn’t possibly mean it. Sweet, idealistic Q, ever the optimist. Wide-eyed and hopeful. Eliot smiled fondly. “We were just injected with a half-century of emotions, so I get that maybe you’re not thinking clearly.”_

_“No, I’m just saying, what if we gave it a shot?” Quentin looked at him, eyes searching. “Would that be that crazy? Why the fuck not?”_

_That’s when the realization hit: Quentin did mean it. He meant every word. This was not coming down from the emotion bottles—Q was thinking clearly._

_And that was terrifying._

_Eliot wanted to tell him that, yeah, it was that crazy—hadn’t he met Eliot? Didn’t he know that Eliot fucked up good things? Didn’t he understand that these memories, they were too precious, too perfect, to be ruined by something like the reality of who they were here?_

_The worst part was the small bit of idealism within Eliot—that part of him that wanted to take the shot, too. That part of him that saw the hope in Quentin’s eyes and wanted so badly to believe the way that Quentin did._

_But he couldn’t bring himself to risk it._

_“Q, come on. I love you, but…” Eliot swallowed, feeling his chest tighten, feeling the weight of his own words. “You have to know that that’s not me, and that’s definitely not you. Not when we have a choice.”_

_And the ice in the air, the shattering silence for that split second, that moment that never really ended…_

_“Okay, I—Okay,” Quentin replied, small and light. His voice broke and he hid his face. “Sorry, I—”_

_Eliot looked away. Guilt settled in his stomach. The hurt in Quentin’s voice—God, it stung. Eliot felt a physical pain in his chest. He couldn’t look Quentin in the eye. He wondered if he’d ever be able to again, after what he’d just done._

Eliot squeezed his eyes shut tighter, the memory making him nauseous with regret. It was a visceral reaction—every time he heard that small, hurt tone in his mind… He loved Quentin, and he’d broken his heart. Selfishly, cruelly, rejecting the idea that the life they remembered belonged to them. Rejected the authenticity of how they both felt.

He could’ve—God, he could’ve ruined everything.

Yesterday, he thought he’d never get the chance to make it right. That he’d never be able to tell Quentin the truth.

“If you come back, Q,” Eliot said with a thin sigh, “I have things I need to tell you. Don’t let me be a coward again. I need to face this.”

He looked up at the ceiling, blinking away tears.

“ _When._ When you come back. Not if.” Eliot couldn’t let himself lose any conviction. He _needed_ to believe in this. He’d fall apart if he let the uncertainty take hold.

He wasn’t going to let his own doubt, his own fear of hurt and loss and disappointment, get in the way again. He wasn’t going to let his own doubt hurt Quentin. Not this time.

~

Quentin sat cross-legged on the couch, hating everything. Hating air. The memorial fucking sucked enough. He was just—fuck, he was just _existing,_ in some kind of way, not being heard, not being seen. All he could do was follow, and watch.

And Eliot… Eliot had doubts. He’d said as much when he woke up.

Of course he had doubts—Quentin had no real way of _proving_ to anyone that he was here. The best he could do was try and make them feel him, and that wasn’t going well.

So Eliot was just _hurting,_ and Quentin was _there,_ and he couldn’t do a fucking thing except wait for Eliot to go back to sleep and hope the whole entering-his-dreams thing worked a second time.

But Eliot, true to his promise, wasn’t letting the doubts affect what he was doing.

He’d called everyone, and here they were, avoiding eye contact in the living room of the Cottage.

Well. Not everyone. It was Margo, Alice, Julia, and Kady.

“Well, fuck, El,” Margo breathed, wide-eyed, after Eliot explained himself. She shifted uncomfortably on her feet, like there was something she wanted to say.

“So you’re saying that Quentin is _here?”_ Julia said. Her voice shook, but she was certainly daring to look more optimistic than Margo. More optimistic than Alice, too. She glanced around the room, like Quentin might be visible. Her eyes passed over him without recognition.

“I know how it sounds—” Eliot started.

Quentin could hear the uncertainty in his voice—he almost winced at the way Julia’s look of tentative hope cracked a little.

“Are you sure?” Alice said, looking something close to pitying, something close to shattered. “Eliot, I know you want to believe it—”

“I don’t _believe_ it, I _know_ it—” Eliot said, a little desperately.

“—but Penny and I _saw_ what happened in the Mirror World. Q, he’s—he’s _gone._ He _evaporated_ —there was nothing _left_ of him.”

It tugged at Quentin’s heart, thinking of Alice and Penny having to _watch_ that. The image of Penny holding Alice back, of Alice’s echoing screams and sobs as she saw him—

He put his face in his hands, groaning. “I’m sorry, Alice.”

Eliot tightened his jaw. “Nothing left of his body, maybe.”

“El, baby—” Margo said, her voice sad and strained.

“Don’t. Not you too,” he replied, putting a hand up.

“I’ve dreamt of him, too, El,” Alice said softly.

He shook his head. “Alice, I didn’t _dream_ him. He was _there,_ it was _him,_ I know it was.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I just _am_ , okay?”

She still looked doubtful.

Eliot straightened his spine, ever so slightly, until he looked every bit the High King that he had been. He looked almost impossibly tall as he glared down at Alice, steel in his gaze. Quentin could still see the bit of doubt and fear in the cracks in his façade, but that’s what happens after fifty years with someone. Everyone else seemed to lean away.

“You think I don’t know the difference?” he said, his voice almost dangerously even. “Between him and my memories of him? I spent _months_ trapped in my mind, with only his memory. I know the _fucking_ difference, Alice.”

Alice pressed her lips together, just barely wavering under Eliot’s glare. Quentin got to his feet, walking over to Eliot. He placed a palm flat against Eliot’s chest. _No reaction._

“Cut her some slack, El,” he said softly. “She saw me die.”

“Too bad we don’t still have the truth key,” Kady murmured, crossing her arms.

Eliot tuned away from Alice, ending their staring contest. “Do you remember what we tried, when it was Penny 40?”

“None of it _worked,”_ Kady said.

“We didn’t have magic then,” Eliot replied.

“You were going to build him a body,” Julia said, snapping her gaze over to Alice.

Alice glanced at the floor, looking uncomfortable. “Yeah, but—”

“But _what,_ exactly?” Julia replied sharply. “It’s _Q_.”

Alice let out a short sigh. “I know that. I _know_ we all want Q back.” She looked up, brow furrowed. She glanced at Kady. “The spell I was using for Penny 40, it’s—it takes a _lot_ of magic, and a lot of time, and there’s no guarantees it’ll work.”

“So, what, Q isn’t _worth it_ to you?” Eliot replied, taking a few slow steps towards Alice.

“God, Eliot, I didn’t _say_ that,” Alice said, her tone exasperated.

Quentin pinched the bridge of his nose. “You people can’t just talk things through, can you?”

“I’m just saying we should be sure. We knew Penny 40 was there—we’d seen him, we’d all spoken to him,” Alice insisted. “If Quentin has already passed on—”

“He _hasn’t,_ I’m telling you he hasn’t—” Eliot put in.

Alice shot him a glare. “Okay, but if he _has—”_

“What, you want proof? You don’t think it’s worth it to just _try?”_

“God, that’s _not_ what I’m saying—”

“Well, what _are_ you saying, exactly? Because from where I’m standing, you sure seem reluctant to help Q, and, well, just so we’re all on the same page here, _Quentin_ would’ve jumped at any semblance of a chance to save _any one of us_ , regardless of any doubts—”

“Listen, Eliot, this isn’t a game, this spell could turn someone into a niffin, if you’re not careful—”

“Oh! Well, good thing Quentin already brought back a niffin, or have you _forgotten_ —”

“Fuck you, of course I haven’t—you know, if you _really_ knew Q, you’d know he’d _never_ want us to put _our_ lives in danger for him—”

 _“If I really knew Q?”_ Eliot let out a slightly frantic laugh. “Sweetheart, you have no idea.”

“Alright, _easy,”_ Kady snapped.

“Finally,” Quentin sighed. He walked back over to the couch, taking a seat next to Julia and running a hand through his hair. Julia still looked so stricken, his heart hurt. He nudged her arm. “Jules, it’s gonna be okay.”

“Alright,” Kady said, her hands up as Alice and Eliot glowered in different directions. “Look. Everyone in this room loved Quentin. We _all_ want him back. Arguing isn’t going to help. We’re all on the same side here.”

Quentin slipped his hand into Julia’s and she gasped.

“He’s here,” she said, barely audibly.

Eliot snapped his head over to her. “What was that?” he said, his voice low.

“Quentin, he’s—” She stared down at her hand, flexing it, her brow furrowed. “I thought—”

“Wait, no, hold on, you—you felt him, too?” Eliot said, and his voice had dropped all of the steel and certainty, revealing his bare relief.

Quentin watched Alice and Margo exchange a sad, defeated glance.

“Grief is complicated,” Margo said quietly, uncharacteristic sincerity and gentleness in her tone.

“Bambi—” Eliot said, his voice cracking slightly.

“I _felt_ him,” Julia said, but she didn’t sound sure.

“I feel him, too,” Alice replied. “All the time. I even saw him out on the street the other day. It doesn’t mean he’s here.”

“I even thought I saw him in Fillory,” Margo said, her voice raw.

“Listen, guys, we can’t just split into groups of who does and doesn’t believe in ghosts or who does and doesn’t have grief hallucinations, okay?” Kady said. The strength in her voice got everyone’s attention. “Eliot is right. We’re not giving up on Quentin.”

Eliot started to say something, but Kady put a hand up to silence him.

“Alice is _also_ right. We shouldn’t go through all of the difficulty and danger of the bone-knitting spell until we have confirmation. If Q is here, we’ll save him. If he’s not, you’re all getting some fucking grief counseling. Got it?”

“I mean, that’s _fair_ , but I’m really not in a position to prove myself here,” Quentin said. “Also we might be on some kind of time limit? I’m not sure how long this whole non-corporeal spirit hanging around thing is gonna last.”

“That’s all I was trying to say,” Alice said quietly. “Of _course_ I want him to still be here. Of _course_ I want to help save him, if he can be saved. But we can’t get ourselves killed for something that might not even work. Quentin wouldn’t want that. Hell, we don’t even…” Her voice cracked a little. “We don’t even know if he would _want_ to come back.”

“Oh, Alice,” Quentin said, softly, sadly. He couldn’t blame her for that doubt. She’d seen the moment he gave up, the moment he stopped trying to save himself—of course she’d doubt it. He didn’t know how to tell her he regretted it.

“He _does,”_ Eliot said. “He wants to come back.”

Julia nodded. “I know Quentin. He’s been depressed his whole life, and he’s been bad these last few months, but—”

She broke off, a very small, strangled sob in the back of her throat. She coughed and looked down, like she was trying to cover it up.

Quentin put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. She didn’t react.

He wished he knew what was making them feel him there. He wished he knew how to reassure her, how to comfort her. Rather than just have to spectate this entire painful experience.

“He looked so resigned,” Alice murmured to the floor. “In the Mirror World. Like he knew _exactly_ what he was doing.”

“He wouldn’t—” Julia tried weakly, but she couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Jules…” Quentin said.

“He wants to come back,” Eliot insisted again.

“Look, El, I know—” Margo started.

“Damnit, Margo, _you_ of all people should believe me,” Eliot said turning away sharply.

“I _want_ to believe you,” she replied. “I do.”

“We all want to believe it,” Alice added.

Eliot let out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, how am I supposed to _prove it_ to any of you?”

Quentin perked up. “I’d like to know that, too.”

“We can’t waste time,” Julia said urgently. “I _felt_ him, he—”

“No offense, Julia, but you already believed Eliot,” Alice said, not unkindly. “And the power of suggestion—”

“Don’t,” Eliot said sharply, putting a hand up.

“I’m _sorry,”_ Alice replied. “But I’m right.”

Quentin pressed his lips together. Well, he might as well give it a shot, right?

He got to his feet and walked over to Alice. “Okay, just—just _try_ , okay? I need you to try,” he said. He took a breath, slipping his hand into hers, squeezing lightly.

She jerked her hand back, shaking her head. Quentin sighed, pulling his hand back up to his chest. It _hurt._

She squeezed her eyes shut. “He visited your dream, right? Maybe—”

“Oh, sure, I’ll just put in a request,” Eliot interrupted, his tone sardonic and condescending. He looked up at the ceiling and gestured widely. “Hey, Q, if you _don’t_ mind, would you please prove yourself to our Alice here, before we get started on, you know, saving you from an eternity as a ghost or some shit? She needs some reassurance. You may want to see about proving yourself to Margo, too. Just in case, right?”

“Eliot—” Quentin started, sighing. “You know you’re not being fair.”

“Eliot, calm down,” Margo said, the patience in her tone thinning. “You’re not the only one hurting.”

He snapped his gaze to her, glaring. “My word should be good enough for you, Margo,” he said, his voice lowered and cracking slightly.

She studied his face. “It usually is. But you haven’t exactly been in your right mind, El. And this topic isn’t exactly one you’re rational about. I don’t want you to get yourself hurt.”

Eliot scoffed. “ _This topic._ This topic is Quentin’s _life.”_

“Eliot, I loved him too.”

Eliot took a breath and closed his eyes. “I am doing this with or without anyone’s help. So you and Alice can doubt all you want,” he said. His tone was even, controlled. He turned to Julia. “Shall we, then?”

Julia got to her feet, following him out of the room without looking at anyone else.

Alice and Margo exchanged looks.

Kady pinched the bridge of her nose.

“That was constructive,” she muttered.

“No kidding,” Quentin replied, rubbing a hand down his face.

Margo let out a long thin sigh. She pulled her eyepatch off to rub at the corner of her fairy eye, and then she froze.

Quentin stilled. “Wait—”

“ _Quentin?”_ she said with disbelief.

~

The relief Eliot felt was truly staggering.

He _wasn’t_ crazy. He hadn’t imagined it, or dreamt it up. It wasn’t his denial getting the best of him. Quentin was _here._ It was the kind of weight from his shoulders, the kind of uncoiling tension in his spine, that was difficult to express.

He’d all but collapsed into the softness of the couch when Margo called him and Julia back into the living room.

“Okay, Q, I can’t _hear_ you, I can only see you,” Margo said sharply to the air in front of her. “Gesturing more isn’t going to help.”

Eliot squeezed his eyes closed, melting into the pillows. _Q was here, he was here, he was here._ The words circled through his mind like a heartbeat, like a tether.

“Okay, so I found the spell,” Alice said, flipping through a book. Her eye brows had furrowed in tense determination. “When I was doing it for Penny 40, it was going to take a while, because I was the only one with magic. But, with the ambient magic back to normal, if all of us work on it together…”

“How long will it take?” Julia said, leaning over to look on with Alice.

“We could maybe get it done by the end of the day,” Alice said, sounding like she barely believed it as her eyes connected with Julia’s and they both started laughing.

“Quentin seems pleased,” Margo reported. “Well, I don’t fucking know. He just, like, fell to the ground and is smiling like a moron.”

“Bambi,” Eliot said, but he was smiling, too.

“Said with love, of course, baby,” Margo replied, shooting him a sidelong glance and a wry grin.

 _Giddy,_ Eliot realized. He felt giddy. Light, buoyant, like _laughing._ They were going to be able to bring Quentin back, and it wasn’t even going to have to be that _complicated._ Everything was going to be okay—better than okay, everything was going to be _beautiful._ He could hardly stand it.

He felt a warmth on his hand, a pressure. He looked over at Margo, gaze questioning.

She nodded. “That’s our Q, alright. You can feel him?”

“Yes,” Eliot breathed. “I can.” His fingers twitched, longing to cling to Quentin’s hand. Longing for there to _be_ a hand to cling to.

 _Soon,_ he promised. Soon, Quentin would be there, really, _truly_ be there. And Eliot would be brave for him. Eliot could be brave.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seems to have gone from self-indulgent angst to something near self-indulgent fluff. Sometimes, things turn out well, because there has been enough pain as it is. 
> 
> Also, there's a non-zero chance of me adding an epilogue that is exclusively some self-indulgent fluff of the aftermath of all of this. So we'll see if that happens.

_Hold my head inside your hands_

_I need someone who understands_

**_I need someone, someone who hears_ **

**_For you, I've waited all these years_ **

**For you I'd wait 'til kingdom come**

_Until my day, my day is done_

_And say you'll come and set me free_

_Just say you'll wait, you'll wait for me_

\- “Til Kingdom Come” by Coldplay

~

The spell was fairly grueling, as it turned out. It took a lot of focus, a lot of energy, and some complicated, _very_ precise gestures that you couldn’t afford to do wrong. They decided it would be best for everyone to take it in shifts, three people working at a time, while the other two were either resting or going on a food run.

After one of his shifts, Eliot fell back onto the couch, aching everywhere. He leaned his head back to look at the ceiling. He wondered what Quentin was doing, how close he was, if he was trying to communicate with them. Eliot moved his hand a little, hoping to feel the slight pressure, the presence he’d felt before.

“I think we’re about at the halfway point. Maybe farther,” Julia said, offering him a cup of hot chocolate, her eyes betraying her anxieties.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it. He took a long sip, letting the warmth comfort him. He looked at the almost-body sprawled out on the table. “Looks _just_ like you, Q.”

Julia’s lips quirked up in a slight smile. “Don’t tease Ghost Quentin, he can’t defend himself.”

“Come on, for _once,_ he can’t interrupt us. You can say _anything_ , Jules, and he just has to wait.” Eliot leaned up a little with a mischievous grin. “Oh, go on, say something inaccurate about one of his nerd things.”

She laughed. “His nerd things are _my_ nerd things, too.”

“I’m sure not _all_ of them,” Eliot replied. “Try. It’ll be fun. My last break, I was just muttering nonsense about the Chatwins. How many of them were there again? Five, right?”

She shot him a glare. “I’m not him, I’m not taking that bait.” She paused, tilting her head to the side. “Wow, you know, I just _wish_ someone was here to explain D&D to me, you know?”

Eliot let out a theatrical sigh. “Alas, no one can. I don’t even know what those two letters _stand_ for. I’m far too cool for that sort of knowledge. It’s some kind of live action roleplaying event, right? Like a Renaissance Faire?”

Julia shrugged. “Who knows? Not me.”

“What else…” Eliot said. He snapped his fingers. “I’ve never seen _Lord of the Rings.”_

“You know, I don’t know how much that would bother him. He’s got a whole thing about how more people should read the books.”

“Oh, well I’ve _definitely_ never read the books. Aren’t they like, a million pages?”

“Something like that.”

“Honestly, Q, if the _movies_ are too long for me, _why_ would I read the books?”

Julia smiled, looking away for a moment. She shook her head. “I can _almost_ hear him.” She shifted in her seat, straightening up and launching into a pretty good impression. “ _Look, the books, are like, masterpieces—I mean obviously, you should watch the movies too—did you know, that, um, that the third one won Best Picture at the Oscars—but like, read the books, like,_ first _, you know? That way you can, um, you can really actually_ appreciate _the movies.”_

Eliot burst out laughing, unselfconsciously. She was right—he could almost _hear_ Quentin’s rambling, see the way his eyes lit up when he talked like that. When he got ahold of himself again, he nudged Julia lightly with his elbow. “Don’t _do_ that, I’m _injured._ You’re going to make me pull my stitches.”

“Hey, I’m injured, too,” Julia replied.

“Mm, no, no, I win the who’s-more-injured contest, hands down.”

“I didn’t know it was a contest.”

Eliot looked at her in faux wide-eyed sincerity. “It’s _always_ a contest.”

Julia laughed, loud and open, looking surprised at herself. Eliot felt a stab of pride that her anxieties seemed to have faded, or at least been put on hold.

“Hey!” Margo’s sharp voice cut in. “If you two assholes have time to mess around, you have time to go on a coffee run. Mama needs a pick-me-up, and Alice has started yawning.”

Eliot shot Julia a bemused glance before pulling himself to his feet, ignoring the dull ache. “Alright!” He clasped his hands together. “Starbucks orders, everyone?”

“Latte with an extra shot,” Margo said. “Actually, make it two extra shots.”

“Red-eye,” Kady said.

“Caramel Frappuccino with extra whip?” Alice piped up.

Eliot turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

She shrugged, looking only mildly embarrassed. “Also with an extra shot.”

He sighed and shook his head. “I’ll reserve my judgment,” he said solemnly.

“You’re very clearly _not_ reserving your judgment,” Alice replied.

“Oh, this _is_ me reserving my judgment,” he said with a small smile. “Imagine if I wasn’t holding back.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just go get the coffee, Waugh.”

“Oh, and she pulls out the last name!” He put a hand to his heart dramatically. “I do apologize, Quinn. I’ll get your candy drink.”

“Extra caramel syrup now, too.”

He laughed. “I can’t believe I’ll have to ask for that with my _own_ voice.”

Julia put a hand on his arm and gazed up at him very seriously. “It’s alright. I can order it, I’ll take one for the team. The baristas will expect it from me.”

“You’re a hero, Wicker.”

“Don’t I know it,” she replied. “Come on.”

She pulled him out the door as he said some goodbyes to the three girls still working and the partial body on the table— _and a farewell to you, too, three-quarters or so of Quentin Makepeace Coldwater—_ and they began their slow walk towards the portal into the city.

“We should bring something back for him, too,” Julia said, her voice getting lower, almost timid. “For when he wakes up, I mean.”

A smile grew on Eliot’s face. _When he wakes up. What a concept._

“That’s a great idea, Julia,” he said, sincerely. His voice just barely shook.

It was all going to be okay. It was all going to be beautiful.

~

Quentin’s eyes flew open and he sat up, gasping, air filling his lungs like he’d never breathed before.

He hadn’t, in a way, he realized. His fingertips tingled, feeling brand new as they grasped against the table. His bare chest rose and fell rapidly— _oh, shit, bare, he wasn’t wearing anything—_

“Um,” he said, his lips and tongue feeling strange. “I—”

“Quentin,” Margo said, throwing her arms around him unselfconsciously. She gripped his shoulders tightly. “Quentin, you’re alive, you’re—”

“Clothes,” he said, dumbly, hugging her back with one arm as he propped himself up with the other.

She laughed, wetly, and he could feel her tears dripping onto him. “Fucking idiot. _That’s_ what you’re worried about?”

“Um,” he said again, a short laugh escaping him. “Kind of?”

“I’ll get you something,” Kady said, pausing a moment to squeeze his forearm lightly. “Glad to have you back, Coldwater.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, awed. _Glad to have you back._ Because here he was—alive, alive and in the Cottage, _alive,_ breathing, _fucking alive._

He’d never been so happy to be alive before. He’d never felt so light and unraveled and _fucking ecstatic._

God, he couldn’t have imagined it. He couldn’t _believe_ it.

And then Margo punched him hard in the arm.

“You self-sacrificial dickweed, fucking _asshole,_ how dare you—what the fuck were you _thinking,_ moron, I could _kill_ you, what the fuck is _wrong_ with you—”

“Ow. Margo—”

“I mean, _seriously,_ Coldwater, what, did you think we were just fucking doomed? We could’ve figured something out, we _always_ do, but nooooo, you just had to play the goddamn hero because you make decisions without fucking thinking at _all_ , I swear to God, if you pull that shit again—”

“ _Margo,”_ Quentin said, a bubble of laughter coming out of him. “Jesus. Okay, I’m sorry. I love you, too.”

She punched his arm again. “I’m so _fucking_ happy to see your dumb ass, Q. Don’t you _ever_ pull that _motherfucking_ shit again, or I will cut your goddamn hands off like the Beast and Penny 40.”

“Jesus, damn, _alright_.”

A gentler, more tentative hand touched his shoulder and he turned his head.

“Quentin,” Alice said, leaning forward and hugging him.

“Hey,” he said, wrapping his free arm around her tightly. _Alice._

“I think we’re all in agreement that you never get to go on the final missions in quests anymore,” Alice mumbled into his shoulder. “You’re benched forever. Got it?”

“Okay, okay,” he said, running a hand over her hair. “I’m sorry, I really, really am.”

“Apologies aren’t getting you off the bench.”

He laughed a little. “I get it.”

“No, seriously, you’re on water duty or something, you’re only getting the safest, most boring jobs—”

“Okay, understood—”

“You’re never, _never_ sacrificing yourself like that again.”

He tightened his arm around her. “I wouldn’t.”

“Good, because we’re not building you another body, okay? Last one. So make it count.”

“I promise, Alice. I promise.”

She let out a small sob, squeezing her arms around him one last time before pulling back and giving a decisive nod. “Good. I am holding you to that.”

“Yeah, better be careful, Coldwater, Quinn runs the Library now,” Kady said, emerging with a small pile of clothes. “She can fuck up your shit.”

“And I will,” Alice put in, looking a little proud.

“Scary,” Quentin said, getting up to pull on the clothes. They were his clothes, but the fabric felt strange against his skin— _brand new_ , everything felt so brand new.

“That’s better,” Kady said. “Everyone else had already seen you naked, but no offense Q, I’ve seen more now than I ever needed to.”

Quentin laughed a little, adjusting the shirt against his shoulders.

He heard the door swing open behind him, some familiar laughter drifting in.

The laughter cut off abruptly and he heard gasps and something crashing to the floor.

“The _coffee,”_ Margo said, her tone bordering on a whine.

Quentin turned slowly, his heart racing in anticipation.

Julia and Eliot stood in the doorway, with mirroring slack expressions and a mess of spilled coffee drinks in front of them.

Eliot turned his gaze to Margo. “You didn’t _wait_ for us?” he said.

“Q,” Julia breathed, rushing forward.

Alice stepped aside and Julia took her place, arms wrapped tight around his neck.

“Hi, Jules,” he said, a small laugh escaping as tears welled in his eyes.

“You’re complaining that we didn’t delay his resurrection for you?” Margo replied to Eliot.

“Of course not, I’m just—”

“I can’t _believe_ you dropped the drinks, you better be prepared to go back out there—”

“What the fuck? No way in _hell_ am I leaving now—”

“It’s fine, guys, it’s fine—I got this—” Alice was already casting to reverse the spill.

“But does that mean we’ll be drinking floor coffee—”

“Bambi, are you seriously worried about that—”

“Look, I just don’t want a latte that was soaking into the Cottage carpet, I know what’s _been_ on this floor—”

“Quentin, oh my God,” Julia murmured into his shoulder. “I thought—God, I thought—”

“I’m here, I’m here—” His tears were falling freely now, completely overwhelmed. All of his best friends, together, here—he was back, he couldn’t _believe_ how lucky he was to have these people in his life, to have his _life_ back.

Julia pulled back, one hand on his cheek, one brushing his hair back. “I love you so fucking much, Q,” she said, smiling so much it looked like her cheeks might hurt from the strain.

“Yeah,” Quentin said. “I love you, too.”

And what else was there to say? Julia hugged him again, with all the love and relief and pain in the world, before pulling back and stepping aside, lingering just enough to squeeze his hand.

Eliot and Margo were still bickering over the coffee a little, and Quentin laughed.

They both fell silent and Margo turned to him with a knowing smile.

Eliot turned slower, seeming reluctant, almost afraid. Quentin’s chest tightened. _Be brave, El, it’s okay._

“Hey, El,” he said weakly, with a hesitant smile.

Eliot was looking him up and down, seemingly having a hard time meeting his eyes. “Hey,” he replied.

Margo hit Eliot’s arm. “Well, don’t just _stand_ there, our boy is back from the dead.”

A smile grew on Eliot’s face. “Well, I just didn’t want to—”

Quentin couldn’t wait any longer. He rushed forward, essentially throwing himself against Eliot, wrapping his arms around him.

Eliot stumbled back slightly, letting out a short, pained laugh that Quentin could feel vibrating in his chest. Slowly, carefully, Eliot returned the embrace, pulling Quentin against him.

“Q, you’re here,” he said, awed.

“Yeah,” Quentin replied into his shoulder. “Here I am.”

~

“No, no, I’m just saying—from now until the end of time, anytime someone pays you a compliment, you’ll have to say, _Oh, thanks, my friends built it.”_

Quentin laughed. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Oh, doesn’t it? _Nice dick, Coldwater—oh yes, my good friend Margo lovingly put it together for me—”_

“Oh my God—”

“—it might ruin the mood, sure, but if you _don’t_ say it, it’d be pretty misleading, and besides I’ll _know,_ I’ll sense it and I’ll come after you and I’ll _take away_ my thoughtful gifts—”

“What, make me a Ken doll down there?”

“ _Exactly._ So you know what’s at stake.”

“Be nice, Bambi. He was, in fact, born yesterday.”

“No, today, right?” Kady said.

Eliot shook his head. “Check the time, we’re well into tomorrow now.”

“Do I get two birthdays now then?”

“Oh, sweetie,” Eliot said, brushing a lock of his hair back and smiling. “Of course not. What I’m thinking is that yesterday counts as like, a Mother’s Day type deal, yes? You have to get us all cards and flowers, as we are now your creators—”

“Oh my _God—”_ Quentin had a hand to his mouth, trying to cover the laughter.

“Just some _nice_ Hallmark cards, and you, my dear, don’t get a birthday at all anymore. Did _Frankenstein_ get a birthday?”

“You mean Victor Frankenstein, the guy who built the Monster? I mean, probably, he was just some guy. You know, regular college dropout, he probably had a birthday.”

“Wait, he wasn’t a doctor?” Kady said.

“Nope, college dropout. And you’re missing the point—the point is that Eliot was suggesting that Victor didn’t have a birthday, as way of suggesting that _I_ shouldn’t have one—”

Eliot sighed heavily. “Q, and I mean this in the best way, you’re the worst.”

“What? I’m just _saying,_ I think you meant Frankenstein’s Monster.”

“He definitely meant Frankenstein’s Monster. Common mistake, at least.”

“Thanks for that, Alice, he definitely needed the support. Is this to get back at me for saying there were five Chatwins?”

“I mean, _no_ , but now that you bring that up—”

“Oh my _God,_ Quentin, we can take away your tongue, too, you know—”

“Listen, you said a lot of _things,_ and I just have some corrections I think you should’ve heard—

“Oh my _God—”_

“Okay, so um, _first_ of all—”

“Anyone want another drink?”

~

“You’re okay, though. Right?” Julia asked.

They were standing outside in the cold, the sky still dark, but with that glow that promised dawn. No one had even suggested going to sleep yet; they were all so giddy and talkative. Quentin and Julia had only just managed to get outside for a cigarette, avoiding being followed as Margo recounted her desert hallucinations.

“Yeah,” Quentin said, surprising himself with the truth of it.

“You sure?”

He stopped, considering. He felt pretty okay. The world was bright and wide, and he’d gotten a _real_ second chance, to be everyone and everything he wanted. To live the life he wanted.

“Yes,” he decided. “I mean, I’m like. Over the fucking moon right now, Jules. Seriously, genuinely happy. I know it’s not permanent—like, I know that things… That it’ll come back, you know? The depression, the anxiety. It always comes back. But… that won’t be permanent either. Things’ll get worse, and then they’ll get better again, too, and…”

“Q,” Julia said, brushing a thumb over his cheek to wipe off the tears that had escaped.

He smiled. “I’m good. I _am._ And… I’ll _remember_ that life can be this good. You know? I’ll remember, and I’ll find my way back to happiness when I slip. Every time.”

He was practically bursting with it. Finding his way back to happiness. He could do that. He could _keep_ doing that. This feeling, this joy, this hope, it was _his,_ it was him, and it would always be possible.

“You know, you should probably talk to someone, though,” Julia said. “A therapist. Like you used to.”

Quentin nodded. “I know. I will.”

“Good,” she replied. She sighed, a free, happy noise. “You know, Dean Fogg is going to let me enroll at Brakebills?”

He turned to her, lips quirking up in a smile. “Oh, yeah?”

She grinned. “Yeah. Looks like we’ll be classmates again.”

He put an arm around her, pulling her in. “I’ve missed that.”

“Me too,” she replied, hugging his waist.  

“Maybe we’ll actually get some fucking studying done with you around.”

She laughed. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I plan on getting my fucking degree.”

“I think I’m a little behind on that.”

“You’ve had a lot going on.”

~

It had been such a whirlwind of laughter and smiling and hugging—hours of them all just drinking coffee and then cocktails on the couch together, _giddy,_ so fucking giddy. He and Quentin hadn’t had a moment just the two of them.

It was something like five in the morning by the time Kady said she couldn’t keep her eyes open a moment longer. Something like five thirty when Alice went to her room. Something like six fifteen when Julia passed out, curled up on the couch. Something like seven when Margo passed out next to her.

_And then there were two._

Quentin didn’t even really look tired.

And Eliot certainly didn’t _feel_ tired, though his eyelids kept trying to drag down.

“So,” Quentin said, when the laughter had died and the silence had grown.

Eliot couldn’t keep the smile from his face if he tried. Because Quentin was _here._

“So,” he replied.

“We should probably try to sleep?” Quentin said.

“Is that a question?” Eliot drawled back.

Quentin just kept _looking_ at him, those deep brown eyes gazing straight through him. Eliot, as always, found it hard to maintain eye contact.

“So, um,” Eliot said as he dropped his gaze the floor and furrowed his brow. “Yes. Sleep. Right? Everyone else seemed to think so.”

 _Brave,_ Eliot tried to tell himself, but he wasn’t listening.

“Or,” Quentin suggested mildly. “We could just keep hanging out? Talking? Maybe not out here, though.”

Eliot glanced at their sleeping friends. Margo had started snoring quietly.

“I wouldn’t want to wake either of them,” Quentin said. “I mean, I _just_ came back to life. Not quite ready to die again.”

With that, Eliot’s smile dimmed a little. He wasn’t sure if those jokes would ever be funny to him.

“Sorry,” Quentin said quickly, seeming to sense the shift.

“It was so awful,” Eliot said, his voice soft. “You have no idea.”

“I saw the memorial.”

Eliot shook his head. “Seeing it doesn’t quite convey the weight of it, I think.” He looked up, just barely managing to meet Quentin’s gaze. “It was like we all died, too.”

Quentin swallowed, nodding. “I guess I can only imagine. How it would’ve felt if… if it had been you. Or something.”

Eliot looked at Julia and Margo, sleeping peacefully on the couch. He wasn’t sure if any of them had really gotten untroubled sleep until now. He certainly hadn’t.

“We should go upstairs,” he said, lowering his voice. “They deserve some rest.”

Quentin nodded again, getting to his feet and picking his way across the room quietly. Eliot followed him. Quentin seemed to hesitate at the top of the stairs, his hand hovering near the wall. He made a beeline for Eliot’s room.

Eliot decided not to comment on the decision. He wasn’t sure what he’d feel, looking at Quentin’s bed where he’d slept the night before, believing it was the end.

“So—” Eliot started, closing the door behind him.

“They were twins. Martin and Jane Chatwin. You said Jane was his older sister, but she wasn’t, they were _twins.”_

Eliot suppressed a smile. “Been holding that one in, have you?”

Quentin shot him a look. “You should _know_ that one.”

He shrugged. “Oh, but why would I keep track, now that I have you to tell me?”

Quentin rolled his eyes and fell back onto Eliot’s bed, stretching out. Eliot found himself hovering by the window, where it was fully daylight now. The sun streamed in, hitting Quentin’s face and making his irises glow.

The window was open just slightly, the cold morning air drifting in. Eliot took a seat at the desk, feeling strangely hesitant to be too close to Quentin.

Quentin gave him a sidelong glance. “You told me to not let you be a coward again,” he said, with an edge of challenge in his tone. “You promised to be brave, right?”

Eliot looked at the floor, letting out half of a nervous laugh. “That I did,” he said weakly.

Quentin propped himself up onto his elbows, his hair catching in his eyelashes. “It’s just me, El,” he said, softer.

 _And that’s terrifying,_ Eliot didn’t say. The Mosaic had been so beautiful—those memories were so special. The idea of risking them, the idea of letting Eliot _ruin_ them—

Eliot loved Quentin, but it wasn’t that simple. It was never that simple, because nothing was simple for Eliot. His conviction was wavering, his bravery was failing. How could he look Quentin in the eye and tell him the truth, the truth of how he’d broken them out of fear and out of his own failings?

How could he offer his crooked, damaged self to Quentin? How could he ask Quentin to love him, even after everything? How could he admit what he _wanted?_

“There was something I had to do,” he started, very carefully. “In order to break through possession and speak to you, that day in the park.”

He spared a glance up at Quentin, afraid of what he might find. Quentin’s expression was guarded, curious. Uncertain. Maybe even…

Maybe even a little afraid.

Eliot cleared his throat. “It was a whole ordeal, really. I had to sort through memories, trying to find a door. It was all very literary and symbolic.”

“A door,” Quentin repeated.

Eliot raised a hand. “Please. Save your questions until the end. Yes, a door. The door back into my body, as it were. It was… well, it was hidden.”

Hidden, through traumas and regrets and embarrassments. Through failures, through doors slammed in his face, through strikes from his father, through his own cruelty towards people he should’ve been nothing but kind to.

“Hidden from myself,” Eliot continued. He looked out the window. The sky seemed too wide and blue for how heavy he felt. “In the memory I was avoiding. The memory I thought of least because I didn’t want to look at it.”

“God,” Quentin said, sounding empathetic as ever.

Eliot glanced at him again, offered a tiny, vague smile. It was the best he could do.

“That memory,” he said, and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat again, willing himself to hold it together. “It was the day…”

And words failed him.

“It’s okay,” Quentin said in the pause. He sounded so gentle; Eliot could’ve cried right there. “You don’t have to.”

Eliot shook his head. “No, I do. I do have to. I owe you that much.”

“Owe me…” Quentin said, a question in his tone.

Eliot finally managed to meet his eyes, forcing himself to not look away. “It was the day we remembered,” he said, his voice even and controlled. This was a moment that truly mattered. He wasn’t going to ruin another one of those. “And you asked if we could give it another shot.”

And Quentin—dear, sweet Quentin—looked confused.

Eliot sighed, all his self-hate and doubt right on the surface. “What I did… Shutting you down like that, rejecting you… Telling you _not when we have a choice…_ ” He shook his head again, ignoring the first sting of tears. “I regret it. I was wrong, and I was being cruel and unfair. I was afraid, Q. And when I’m afraid, I run away. I didn’t mean it. I would choose you. Here or anywhere. I’m sorry for ever saying otherwise.”

Quentin’s expression—Eliot wasn’t sure how to read it.

There was a long silence, dragging on and on… It might’ve only been five seconds, but it was excruciating. It was all Eliot could do to not undercut his confession with a snide remark or a sardonic joke. God, he wanted to disappear.

And then—

“I know that,” Quentin said, brow furrowed.

Not quite what Eliot had expected.

“You… you know?” Eliot said slowly.

Quentin smiled, and Eliot’s chest cracked open.

“Of course I know,” he said gently. “Fifty years, El. You get to know a person. I know what happens when you're afraid. You weren’t ready—I realized that.”

Eliot ran his tongue over his lower lip, awed. “I’m ready now,” he said.

And Quentin’s eyes lit up like he’d been anticipating something else.

“Then let me try again,” Quentin said, bright and sincere and open. “Why the fuck not?”

A smile grew on Eliot’s face. “Why the fuck not?” he replied.

He got to his feet and walked toward the bed, slowly, savoring every moment. He knelt onto the mattress beside Quentin. He brought a hand to Quentin’s neck, cupping it carefully, as Quentin leaned up, straightening his arms.

Eliot let himself gaze at Quentin, taking everything in. The curl of his eyelashes, the warmth of his skin, the slight mess of his long hair, the way his eyes had dipped to Eliot’s lips…

And Eliot leaned in, slowly, slowly, pausing right as their noses brushed…

And then he pressed his lips to Quentin’s, putting every ounce of the love and relief he felt into it—kissing gently as first, tenderly like it was the first time they’d ever kissed. In a way, it _was_ the first time. This was Quentin reborn, Quentin recreated. This was their new world, their new lives—the people they were now, miles from who they’d been.

It was the last first kiss they’d ever have, but they’d already gotten more than is typically allotted.

Quentin pulled away, smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You’re the love of my life,” he said simply. “You know that, right?”

 _No,_ Eliot wanted to say. _I didn’t know that._

Because how could it possibly be true? How could this beautiful, perfect thing really belong to him? How could something so _right_ finally happen in Eliot’s fucked up life?

He didn’t say that. He pushed it away, all the doubt and insecurity, all his need for self-preservation.

It was time to be honest. It was time to be brave.

“And you’re the love of mine,” he replied.

Eliot didn’t think it was possible for Quentin to brighten even more, but he did. He practically glowed with the sunlight.

“Peaches and plums, motherfucker,” Quentin said.

Eliot laughed, leaning back in and kissing Quentin more hungrily, more desperately. Because _this,_ this right here was something he never thought he’d get again. Quentin, here with him, alive and open and _in love._ Everything was more than okay; everything was beautiful.

And the world was brighter now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr at official-mermaid, if you like


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> self-indulgent epilogue, here we are.

**_You're the reason that I feel so strong_ **

**_The reason that I'm hanging on_ **

_You know you gave me all that time_

_But did I give enough of mine_

_Well hold on darling_

_This body is yours_

_This body is yours and mine_

**_Well, hold on my darling_ **

**_This mess was yours_ **

**_Now your mess is mine_ **

\- “Mess Is Mine” by Vance Joy

~

It was unclear how long they’d made out on the bed before passing out.

Quentin blinked the sleep from his eyes, the late afternoon heat making him feel heavy. He was on his back, his head towards the window. He shifted slightly, turning to look at Eliot.

Eliot, with his hair in his face, his arm draped across Quentin’s abdomen.

Quentin felt warmth in his chest at the sight. _What a way to wake up_.

He reached over, stroking Eliot’s hair back from his eyes, running a thumb down Eliot’s cheek. Eliot mumbled incoherently and shifted closer.

_God,_ Quentin thought. _Life is so fucking great._

Eliot’s heartfelt, bare confession last night—Quentin hadn’t been _prepared_ for it. He knew that Eliot loved him, as surely as he knew that he loved Eliot. It was a fixture in Quentin’s understanding of the world—the sky was blue, magic was real, he and Eliot loved each other unconditionally.

Being rejected by Eliot, that day in the throne room, had been hard and painful. It had hurt, to know that Eliot wasn’t willing to admit that what they had together, what they _were_ together, was real. It had hurt to watch Eliot put on his armor and lie like that.

It had hurt, again, for Quentin to keep trying anyway. To ask Eliot to come on the boat quest. To follow Eliot into danger. To keep trying to show him, again and again, that Quentin wasn’t going anywhere. That Quentin was going to wait for him.

And when Eliot had broken through the possession, when Eliot had told him he was still alive—

_Fifty years. Who gets proof of concept like that? Peaches and plums, motherfucker._

Quentin _knew._

It wasn’t surprising to know that Eliot loved him.

It _was_ surprising, and heartbreaking, to hear that Eliot had been hurting and full of regret this whole time. That he’d had to shove away the memory, worrying that he’d broken Quentin’s heart.

It wasn’t so much surprising as it was exhilarating to hear that Eliot was _ready_ now.

God, Quentin loved him so much, it hurt. His heart ached with it.

He traced Eliot’s jawline with his fingertips.

He remembered waking up like this, every morning for years, in that other life they’d had together. How beautiful it had been, in that idyllic, simple life, in that uncomplicated place where they lived their days in that small cottage, discovering that the beauty of all life was more than a pattern of tiles, more than an equation to solve. It had been so beautiful.

This was better.

The simplicity of that life—it _had_ been beautiful, really. The fact that there was no heart-stopping quest, no imminent danger. Just the mundane conflicts of every day life, just the complications of a life well lived.

But Quentin didn’t need simple. He just needed Eliot.

“Are you watching me sleep?” Eliot said, voice low and scratchy.

“Just enjoying waking up next to you,” Quentin replied.

“You’re such a sap.”

Quentin leaned forward, kissing Eliot’s forehead. “Can’t help it. I love you.”

“Of course you do, I’m really quite spectacular.”

“Humble, too.”

“Mm. The most humble.” Eliot’s eyes fluttered open and he smiled. “I love you, too.”

Quentin was never going to get tired of hearing that.

He let out a content sigh, pressing his forehead to Eliot’s, relaxing into it.

“Are you going to freak out if I tell you how happy I am?” he said.

He felt Eliot’s hand rest on his neck, lazily tracing circles under his ear.

“Mm. No. Tell me.”

“I’m so fucking happy, El.”

“Me too.”

“No, seriously. I’m like, got-a-new-puppy-Christmas-morning happy. Became-king-of-Fillory happy. Found-out-magic-was-real happy.”

Eliot leaned forward, pressing his lips to Quentin’s.

Quentin was never going to get tired of _that_ either.

~

Eliot still felt a little hesitant in the casual affection he’d typically show. He found himself keeping a physical distance from Quentin, despite Quentin’s tendency to lean in and general drape himself over Eliot whenever he got the chance.

It was the knowledge of what had happened while he was gone, he supposed. Eliot knew that the Monster had hurt Quentin. He knew that it had been _these_ hands, ultimately. It made him hesitant to be the one to touch first.

That couldn’t last very long, though. More and more, Eliot caught himself brushing his fingers along Quentin’s shoulders thoughtlessly, pressing a palm to Quentin’s neck, kissing his forehead. It was like an instinct, the kind of muscle memory you develop after fifty years.

But Eliot tried to tell himself it wasn’t that simple.

“I’m sorry,” he said one day, drawing his hands back from a casual, subconscious touch.

Quentin glanced up, just looking a little confused. “Huh?”

“Well, I just, um—” Eliot tried, gesturing vaguely. “I mean. I don’t know if…”

Quentin’s brow furrowed a little. “El, what are you talking about?”

Eliot let out a short sigh. “I mean, the Monster…” He flexed his hands. “I am just trying not to…”

Straightening up abruptly, Quentin looked more serious. “El, _no,”_ he said emphatically.

“I’m just saying, I would understand if you—”

“No,” Quentin interrupted. He offered a hand. Gratefully, Eliot took it, and Quentin pulled him down onto the couch next to him.

“Please, Quentin,” Eliot said softly. “I just want to say that, you know. That I understand that it was, well, my body, so…”

Quentin shook his head. “Eliot, I love you for being concerned, but you don’t get it.”

He was looking at Eliot with such solemn sincerity that Eliot had to flick his gaze away for a moment to gather himself.

“I mean, he didn’t even look like you. He was using your body, but you don’t understand, it didn’t even _look_ like you.” Quentin ran his fingers along the lines on Eliot’s palm. “Honestly? In my mind, the hands that did those things and these hands—they’re not even remotely connected. Because, Eliot, it _wasn’t you.”_

Eliot felt his throat tighten. It felt harder to breathe, like the oxygen had been sucked away.

Brave, kind, beautiful Quentin.

“Oh,” Eliot said, because nothing else would come out.

Quentin’s gaze snapped up to his. “Wait, El, are you okay?”

Eliot forced a smile and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m wonderful. I’m great.” His voice cracked.

“What’s wrong?” Quentin said, bringing a hand to Eliot’s face.

Eliot placed his hand over Quentin’s. “Nothing. Everything’s perfect.” He rubbed his thumb against Quentin’s knuckles. “Thank you.”

Quentin studied his face for a moment longer before leaning in, placing a gentle, tender kiss into Eliot’s lips.

_Oh._ Eliot wasn't sure he was ever going to get used to that.

Somehow, it surprised him every time.

~

“So my theory,” Penny 23 was saying, “is that the Mirror World split him. Right? Like his consciousness and his physical form. So the like, astral projection thing—that was because the part of him that evaporated in the Mirror World was just the physical.”

“Okay, _my_ theory—” Alice said, “is similar. The Mirror World _did_ do it, but it wasn’t like it split his consciousness from his physical form. More like because he died in the Mirror World, he got reflected back into the real world, but reflections aren’t _physical._ Because it wasn’t astral projection, you know, right? And he wasn’t a _ghost_. Hence—reflection.”

“My theory,” Margo said, leaning forward, “is that you two are fucking nerds.”

“That’s not a theory,” Kady replied. “Observable fact.”

Alice threw a French fry at her.

“My theory,” Eliot said, “is that we were all too tragically and poetically sad and the universe took pity for once.”

“My theory is that the Underworld just straight up didn’t want him,” Julia said.

“Rude,” Quentin interjected.

“Oh, _yeah_ , I bet Penny 40 was just like _oh hell no we’re not taking this fucking nerd_ and knocked him right the fuck back,” Margo agreed.

“Guys, do we have to talk like I’m not here?” Quentin said, his voice a slight whine.

Eliot reached over a ruffled his hair. “Force of habit, sorry.”

“Jerk.”

Eliot grinned a Cheshire cat grin. “You love it.”

“You two are gross,” Margo said. Taking Alice’s lead, she threw a French fry.

Quentin just grabbed it off the table and ate it.

“Alright, alright, _my_ theory is that doing magic in the Mirror World doesn’t actually kill you,” Kady said. “We all knew doing magic in the Mirror World was dangerous, but we didn’t actually know _why,_ so we just assumed it killed you. I think Q was never really dead—I think Mirror Realm magic just fucks with your physical form or something.”

“Okay, yeah, I like that theory,” Quentin said quickly.

“That one?” Eliot said, sounding a little amused. “Why that one?”

Quentin shrugged. “I like the idea that I was never actually dead. It’s comforting.”

“But if you were never actually dead, then you don’t get to claim the whole coming-back-from-the-dead shtick,” Margo said. “Like, if you _were_ dead, you can just fucking pull that out in arguments.”

Julia pointed with one of her fries, nodding. “Automatic win right there. Imagine—Eliot tries to complain about something, and you just get to say, _Okay, but I literally died.”_

“Why, pray, am I the one complaining in this example?”

“Oh, El,” Margo said with faux-sympathy, touching his hand lightly.

“I wonder how held up I’m gonna get once I _actually_ die,” Quentin mused. He hit Julia’s arm. “Remember, when we went to the Underworld looking for your Shade? The guy was like, _oh you died 39 times already, this messes with the system._ I mean, it’s gotta be even worse now.”

“Wait, I’m sorry, what?” Penny 23 said.

“The whole time loop thing,” Julia told him.

“The time travel rules in this universe make no fucking sense,” he muttered. “Does that mean there are like, 39 versions of you already in the Underworld? Because like, there’s a version of me in the Underworld. Do we just keep multiplying anytime we die and come back?”

Eliot frowned. “Well, is there only one Underworld? Or does each alternate timeline _also_ have its own Underworld?”

“Hold up, would I go back to Timeline 23’s Underworld in this scenario?”

“I mean. The guy _said_ we died 39 times,” Quentin said. “That implies that all the timelines connect to one Underworld. Right?”

“Oh, wait, do you think that all this includes that time you, me, El, and Alice all killed each other?” Margo said, tapping Quentin’s arm.

“The time you _what?”_ Kady said, gaping. She rubbed her temples. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“We got brought back pretty fast that time,” Eliot said. “I don’t think that counts?”

“I honestly forgot about that,” Alice said.

“Well, you became a niffin, like, that same day,” Quentin replied.

“I feel like I shouldn’t even be here for this,” Josh muttered into his milkshake. “How the fuck was the key quest the most normal thing to happen to you people?”

“No fucking kidding,” Penny 23 agreed.

“Our lives have been a complete mess,” Quentin said. “Maybe it’ll calm down now?”

“Oh, Q,” Margo said, ruffling his hair. “One can dream.”

~

Quentin rolled over, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He reached over to the other side of the bed, his arm falling into the sheets. Confused, he moved his hand, searching, but the bed was empty.

He leaned up, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.

Eliot wasn’t there.

He furrowed his brow.

He pulled himself up, stretching and yawning.

It was far too early to get up, but he knew he wasn’t going to get back to sleep now, not with Eliot gone.

Eliot was _probably_ just going to the bathroom or having an early smoke but, well, Quentin liked to know for sure.

They’d been through too many crises. Quentin just decided to indulge his need to be overly cautious.

He could hear noises from the kitchen. He followed them, dragging his feet a little.

“What are you doing up?” he mumbled, sitting down heavily at the counter and resting his head on his arms.

Eliot shot him a good-natured glare. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

“It’s too early for that.”

Eliot rolled his eyes, grabbing a mug from the cupboard and pouring coffee into it. He pushed it towards Quentin, reaching over to stroke his hair back. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

Quentin wrapped his hands around the mug, taking a short sip of the still-too-hot coffee. “So are you.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,” Eliot replied, tucking a lock of hair behind Quentin’s ear. “ _I’m_ supposed to be making my boyfriend breakfast in bed. _You_ are supposed to be the boyfriend, still in bed.”

“Boyfriend?” Quentin repeated, raising an eyebrow.

Eliot sent him an amused smile. “Is that not what we are?”

“We were, like, basically married once.”

Eliot paused. “Hm. I’m not sure alternate timeline common-law marriages on another world are legally recognized in the state of New York.”

“Right, of course, my mistake,” Quentin replied dryly.

Eliot leaned over the counter, his palm against Quentin’s neck. He kissed him, slow and affectionate. Quentin could feel his smile. “Call it whatever you like, I’m yours. And I was _going_ to bring you breakfast in bed.”

“What were you going to make?” Quentin asked.

“French toast,” Eliot replied. “But, seeing as you’re not in bed, I suppose it’s unnecessary now, isn’t it?”

“I mean. You could still make me breakfast. Like. I wouldn’t say no.”

A small laugh escaped Eliot’s lips. “You’re very generous, Q.”

Quentin smiled.

He didn’t want to jinx it or anything, but…

Yeah. Life was pretty good.


End file.
